


I See You

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bromance, Canon Compliant, Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou, Everything Hurts, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Missing Scene, Romance, everybody needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a second, Cas remains perfectly still, and this makes Dean feel even worse. That he won’t fight it, that he didn’t even try to get out before the fire had closed around him. And then Cas turns around, looks at him. His face is completely blank.</p>
<p>They look at each other for a long moment. Dean checks the comforting weight of his gun in the back of his jeans, then lets his hand fall again.</p>
<p>“Where are you going, Dean? Where is it you want to go that I can’t follow?” says Cas in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See You

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has to do with the glaring plot holes; with why Crowley is being all friendly again, and why Cas was not even mentioned. And also with the fact Misha said the other day that Cas is feeling unloved and lonely ( _Jesus_ , man - as if this is not a freaking tragedy already). Which means what follows is not very fluffy, I'm afraid. Sorry.
> 
> [I did like Lucifer, though. God bless Mark Pellegrino and his hungry smile.]

When Dean gets to the room, he stops on the threshold for a moment. He always does, now, because the first thing he _always_ sees when he comes through here, every damn time, is a ruin of books and blood; is the body of Eldon Styne on the right, and that kid on the left, and Cas in the middle, his face broken and bleeding; Cas looking up at him with – with –

And Cas is looking at him right now, as well. Dean doesn't like his expression at all. He doesn't like him, period, because his hair is sticking up all wrong, and he's badly shaven, and his suit is all wrinkled. Not that Cas has ever cared about personal grooming – Dean still can't believe the only things he owned as a human were a Gas’N’Sip uniform and a stolen hoodie – but this, right now, is too much.

“Sam is already downstairs. You ready?” he asks, roughly, and he tries not to think about what they're about to do – seek out Crowley, bloody again, and then –

Cas nods. He looks back, once, to where the corridor disappears towards their rooms, and Dean shakes his head.

“Everybody dies,” he says, more aggressively that he'd meant. “That's _Game of Thrones_ in a nutshell, Cas. Season four will still be here when we get back.”

And, it works. Cas looks a bit offended and a bit hurt, but definitely not suspicious. They start walking together towards the garage, but then Dean turns to the right, heads for the warded room.

“Dean?”

“I just need to grab something. Come on.”

Cas doesn't question this, and Dean’s heart sinks a bit lower inside his chest. He remembers, with a pang of guilt and loss, those first few weeks after Cas had appeared inside that barn - after those initial moments of shock, fear, and dogged refusal to ever _accept_ this, whatever it was (not angels, not God - _There is no such thing_ ), Dean had sort of relaxed into it. Someone else in charge - someone _good_ \- someone who could _fix_ it, so that Sam could go back to Stanford and Dean could - but, well, that had not lasted. When he’d found out, in a quiet little town like a thousand others, that Cas had actually obeying _his_ , _Dean_ ’s orders - well. And Dean still feels that weight, every day, because here is someone who, even without his wings and his fucked-up brothers, is more powerful than any other creature Dean has ever met, and still, Dean is in charge. Dean never wanted to be like his father, and yet here he is, saying _Jump_ to people who answer _How high_.

As if he ever knows what to do. As if he could ever hope to, as messed-up and fucked-up as he is.

And now is not the time to think about this. He has a job to do, right here, with Cas. Something which could finally push them over the brink, dissolve whatever it is that’s between them. Something which is all wrong, and yet necessary, and the only way forward.

Dean squares his jaw, opens the secret door of the dungeon.

“Can you get that box on the desk?” he asks, as they both walk inside, and Cas nods, takes one step forward, then a second one.

Dean looks at him - the bed hair, the creased trench coat. Pushing down the slimy sense of wrongness in his gut, he gets the box of matches out of his pocket, lights one and throws it to the ground. 

The circle of flames appears at once, unbroken and unbreachable.

For a second, Cas remains perfectly still, his hands still reaching for the box, and this makes Dean feel even worse. That he won’t fight it, that he didn’t even try to get out before the fire had closed around him. And then Cas turns around, looks at him. His face is completely blank.

They look at each other for a long moment. Dean checks the comforting weight of his gun in the back of his jeans, then lets his hand fall again.

“You never meant for me to come along,” says Cas in the end, and, of course, he's right. 

Trapping an angel: not something you improvise.

“No,” he says.

“Why?” asks Cas, and Dean thinks he should be used by his stillness by now, by the fact Cas forgets he’s inhabiting a human body when he’s focused, and where anyone else would cross their arms, or pace angrily, or even bite their lips - where anyone would _do_ something, anything at all - Cas is just - just there.

“You think I can’t see it?” he asks, and still, Cas doesn’t move.

“You’re not going to check out those murders in Indiana,” he says, instead. “Where are you going, Dean? Where is it you want to go that I can’t follow?”

“Well, I _see_ it. I see it plenty well,” says Dean, but Cas’ accusation hit home, and, just like that, he’s sitting down at the table again, he’s arguing with Sam, he’s telling him that even if they wanted to, even if this was a good plan in _any_ fucking way, it just can’t be done - how would they even _enter_ Hell, let alone get near the Cage?

Sam had looked down, a bit guiltily, and Dean had stared at him.

“You didn’t,” he’d said.

“He knows how.”

“Yeah, because he _rules_ the fucking place.”

“We’ve used him before.”

Dean had scoffed at him, because, okay, this is their life and it’s not news, but still - what about free will? What about fucking _options_?

“So you’ve _called_ him? You’ve called _Crowley_ ,” he’d said, just to spell it out.

“I texted him,” Sam had said quietly, as though this made it better.

“And?” Dean had replied, despite himself.

Seemingly in answer to that question, his phone had rung, almost fallen off the table. _666_ , the screen had flashed, over and over again.

“When this is over,” Dean had said darkly, picking the phone up, “I’m going to beat you over the head, Sammy. With a fucking _baseball_ bat.”

Sam had lowered his eyes unhappily, and Dean had cursed out loud; he’d stood up, moved away from the table. 

“The last time we spoke, you said you wanted to kill me,” he’d hissed, without even bothering to say hello. 

“You're welcome,” Crowley had replied, his stupid British lilt all smooth and velvety in Dean’s ear.

“What the _hell_ , man? What the fuck do you _want_?”

“Your brother asked me to call, so I’m calling.”

“You said we were over,” Dean had said, gritting his teeth when he’d realized how that had sounded. “You tried to fucking _kill_ me.”

Against his better judgement, his eyes had flashed to Sam’s, and the guilt and self-loathing he’d found there had made him even angrier.

“Amara's - guardians, let's say - told me she seemed to be obsessed with you,” Crowley had said, after a moment of silence. “Which is good news. But I needed to be sure.”

Dean had looked up at the ceiling, then down again.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Dean, whatever she is, she has no weaknesses. I tried to negotiate, but it can’t be done. She doesn’t _want_ anything. She doesn’t _need_ anything. She is all-powerful. These – feelings – she has for you -”

“She doesn't have _any_ feelings for me,” Dean had snapped, a cold fear spreading through his body like a bout of sickness.

Crowley had sighed in exasperation.

“Look, whatever it is, you saw her. She doesn't want you hurt. It's a weakness. We can use it.”

“So all that talk about gutting me -”

“Was just talk. You know me, Squirrell. We're besties, you and I.”

“Right,” Dean had said, unable to keep the bitterness and the revulsion from his voice.

Crowley had paused, then, and Dean had been visited by the unsettling (guilt-inducing) thought that Crowley had somehow heard it, all of it - not only his disgust, but his wish that he could just kill Crowley and be done with it; his uneasy certainty that he should have done so years ago, when he’d had the chance (the will) to do so. 

“For God’s sake, Dean. You want to get mushy? Fine, let’s get mushy,” Crowley had said, and he’d sounded almost angry. 

“Crowley -”

“I like you,” Crowley had snarled. “I do not _like_ that I like you, but I do. I know you've been clonked over the head a lot and your memory is not what it used to be, but you should fucking remember _this_ \- that I bloody liked you enough to assist you in your useless quests, more than once - that I got you back to Sam when you were one of mine and I had a perfectly valid claim over you. That I saved your angel's life. Frankly, Dean -”

“Wait, what? You saved Cas’ life? When?”

“Will you bloody focus?”

“And he’s not _my_ angel.”

Crowley had sighed again.

“Denial, thy name is Winchester,” he’d mumbled, seemingly to himself, and then his voice had got loud again. “It doesn't _matter_. Look, I'm on your side here. _Again_. Let’s meet and discuss terms, shall we?”

“Dean?”

Dean blinks, wakes up to the present again. Which he really, really doesn’t want to do, because the present in Cas inside a ring of Holy Fire, and it’s Sam waiting for him so they can go and talk to Crowley about -

He presses a hand over his eyes, then sighs, looks up at Cas again.

“We’ll be back in a few days,” he says, hoping this is true (hoping Lucifer won’t kill them all just on principle).

“Where are you going?” 

“There’s books and comics in the box. And snacks.”

“I don’t want _snacks_. Dean, I can be of use,” says Cas, and, for the first time, he sounds upset.

“You're a mess,” snaps Dean, and he clenches his jaw. He needs to get out of here, right fucking now, because this - this -

“I can be of use,” Cas says again, stubbornly, because this is who he is, a bloody-minded bastard, and the fact he doesn't deny Dean's blunt statement in any way is sucking all the air out of the room; it's too much and too loud.

“I don’t _want_ you to be of use. I want you to get _better_.”

Cas looks at him. He makes a slight movement, as if readying himself to get his blade out, then goes perfectly still again.

“Let me out,” he says, quietly. 

“No,” Dean answers, his heart a heavy, dark mess inside his chest. “What we’re doing right now - it’s too big, Cas.”

“And that is precisely why -”

“Not until you -”

“I won’t get better, Dean,” says Cas, cutting Dean’s sentence in half, and there’s something in his voice - a kind of icy, raw power - that makes Dean’s hair stand up.

“What - what are you talking about?”

Cas clenches his jaw - a mannerism he’s copied from him, Dean thinks, distractedly - and takes a step forward.

“I am not human,” he says, slowly. “I was not made to heal.”

“Bullshit,” says Dean, after a split second of pure shock. “You’ll be -”

“I do not know how to fix it. And whatever I am - I can still help you.”

And Dean really, really wants to say yes. Because, sue him, he’s bloody terrified about everything - what they are about to do, what’s looming over them. He doesn’t want to trust Crowley; he doesn’t want Lucifer anywhere near Sam. And there is nothing he can do about any of it. And Cas - Cas is right. Cas could _help_. But Dean shakes his head.

“You stay here,” he says, taking a step back. “You get better. And when we’re back -”

“ _Dammit_ , Dean! Let me out - let me help - I can -”

Dean allows himself to look at Cas for only a second before turning away and walking towards the door. He’d meant to do this - he’d meant for this to go exactly the way it’s going - and yet his heart is beating way too fast, it’s making him feel sick, nauseated, and when Cas forces out another, pleading, _Dean_ , Dean finds he can’t take another step. He stops in his tracks and stares at the heavy door inlaid with warding symbols and tries to breathe.

“I can’t lose you,” he says, quietly, but he knows Cas has heard him anyway. “I’m trying to keep it together, Cas, but I can't - I won't -”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t know how.

“I think I’ll lose Sam,” he says, when it becomes clear Cas won’t answer. “Whoever is planting those things in his head,” he starts, and then he realizes, too late, that Cas doesn’t know about the visions. That he’s forbidden Sam from telling him, because -

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he turns around.

Cas has moved forward, and is now standing very close to the flames. Too close, frets Dean, and then he remembers _he_ ’s done this - he’s lit those flames himself, and he looks away.

“Sam’s been having visions,” he says. “It started - I don’t know. A few weeks back. He thinks - he thinks God is talking to him.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cas’ face getting pale.

“And what,” Cas whispers, “is God telling him to do?”

Dean glances at him, then away again.

“Sam is seeing the Cage,” he says, and Cas tries, and fails, to take another step forward.

“No,” he says. “Dean, _no_.”

“Don’t you think I’ve told him that?”

“Dean, Lucifer is dangerous,” Cas says, and something in his serious tone - he’s talking as if Dean doesn’t already know this stuff, as if Dean actually _wants_ to do this, any of this - makes Dean angry.

“I _know_ that,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I _told_ him that.”

They remain in silence for a full minute, Cas staring at him, Dean looking down at the floor.

“Let me out,” says Cas again. “I can help you.”

“You still don’t get it,” Dean breathes out. 

“I know Lucifer. I know how to get to the Cage. If that is what you want, then -”

“It’s not,” says Dean, closing his hands into fists, “what I want.”

“Dean -”

“Lucifer _killed_ you. He snapped his fingers and you fucking _exploded_. So don’t tell me you can help, don’t tell me -”

“Dean, I’m not _weak_ -”

“Jesus, Cas, it’s not about -”

“I can still -”

“I can’t lose you,” says Dean, and it’s an angry, heavy thing, just this side of shouting. “Not again. I can’t - I - you can’t ask me to.” 

“Dean -”

“ _Please_.”

Dean can’t look at Cas, not now. There is too much between them, and this is something else he’s completely and utterly afraid of - because sometimes he looks at Cas and sees how broken and messed-up he is - and it’s his, Dean’s fault, all of it - and he can’t fix it - and then other times he sees Cas laugh at the television and hum around his first cup of coffee in the morning, and he thinks - and these thoughts scare him even more, and -

“I will wait for you,” says Cas, and the slow gravel of his voice brings Dean back from the dark place he’d wandered into. “I will be here when you come back.”

“Yeah, I know that.” 

It was a joke; or a lame attempt at one. Dean had gestured at the Holy Fire, tried to smile, because this is what he does every damn time Cas thinks it’s a good idea to use these sentences which imply stuff like ‘love’ and ‘always’ and ‘unconditionally’.

“It has nothing to do with that,” says Cas, a bit reproachful, and Dean looks up, meets his eyes.

“I know,” he forces out. “I’m sorry, Cas. I - I’ll come back. I promise.”

They look at each other only a moment longer before Dean clenches his jaw and turns around, walking towards whatever is waiting for them - and towards his brother, who hasn’t given up, and Dean loves him even more fiercely because of it. He only wishes he knew how Sam is still doing it, all of it (faith, hope; life itself), because he can’t do any of that. Not anymore.


End file.
